


Got You

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal looks after Elizabeth when she gets a migraine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frith_in_thorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frith_in_thorns/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, frith_n_thorns!

“Neal, I need you to do me a favor.”

Neal leaned back on the chaise lounge, looked up at the view from June’s balcony, and smiled. He knew that even if Peter couldn’t see his smile through the phone, he could certainly hear it in his voice. “Wow, Peter. Those are words I rarely hear from you in that order. Does this mean that some point I’ll get to call in this favor?”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter said, and something in his voice made Neal sit up and pay attention. “Look, I need you to go to the house and check on El.”

Neal frowned. “Check on El? Why?”

“I just talked to her, and she’s got a terrible migraine. I’m stuck in D.C. until Sunday night at this damn conference, and she said she’s all right, but she didn’t _sound_ all right.”

Peter sounded fretful, which wasn’t at all like him. But Neal could sympathize; Kate had gotten migraines, and it had never been fun for either of them. He went inside to find his shoes. “I didn’t know El got migraines.”

“She doesn’t get them very often, once or twice a year at most. She’s probably fine,” Peter added, clearly trying to convince himself more than Neal. “But the medication she takes for it make her woozy, and -”

“It’s okay, Peter, I’m heading over there now. I’m not going to scare the hell out of her, am I?”

“No, I’ll text her to let her know that you’re on your way.”

Neal shut his apartment door behind him and started down the stairs. “Is there anything that helps?” For Kate it had been coffee and a hot bath. And sex, actually. Endorphins took the edge off, she’d always said. If that was one of the things that helped El, Neal hoped Peter would keep it to himself.

“Well, the Imitrex works pretty well most of the time. Other than that, a dark, quiet room. No caffeine - it makes it worse. Sometimes she takes a hot shower. And -” Peter stopped.

“What?” Neal asked warily, as he pulled his keys out of his pocket to lock June’s front door. 

“She likes to have her head rubbed,” Peter said, with palpable reluctance. 

That wasn’t so bad. But Peter was clearly embarrassed enough that Neal couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “Peter, are you telling me to rub your wife’s head?” he asked, raising his hand to flag down a passing cab.

“No!” Peter said, and fell silent. Neal gave the cabbie the Burkes’ address and then settled back in the seat, letting the silence stretch between himself and Peter. “No, but . . . if she were to ask you . . .”

“You won’t throw me back in prison?” Neal said. The cabbie glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Neal gave him a bright smile.

“I won’t throw you back in prison,” Peter said. “But she is my wife, so -”

“Hey, _you_ asked _me_ ,” Neal pointed out.

“I did,” Peter said, “and I’m already regretting it. Just make sure she’s taken her medication, all right? And call me to let me know she’s okay.”

“Will do,” Neal said, and hung up. 

The Burkes’ front door was locked, and Peter hadn’t told him where to find the spare key. Neal could have rung the doorbell, but he didn’t want to disturb El if she was asleep, so instead he picked the lock. “Elizabeth?” he called in a low voice, shutting the door behind him. 

“In here,” he heard her say. Neal slipped his lock picking kit back into his wallet and followed her voice into the darkened living room, where he found her lying on the sofa, the television a very low murmur in the background. 

“Hey,” he said, seating himself on the edge of the coffee table. “How’re you feeling?” She looked awful - pale, with make-up smudges around her eyes. But more than that, there was just something _off_ about her - some essential quality of El-ness that was missing, as though the migraine had stamped out her usual spark. 

“Embarrassed,” she said, covering her eyes with her hand. “I can’t believe Peter called you and made you come all the way out to Brooklyn. I told him I was fine.”

“He’s just worried,” Neal said. “Do you want me to go?”

El uncovered her eyes and smiled at him wanly. “No. Since you’re here, you’re welcome to stay. Though I’m not going to be very good company.”

“That’s all right,” Neal said. “Do you need anything? Peter said you’d already taken your medication.”

“Yeah, and it makes me sort of stupid, just so you’re forewarned. I don’t need anything, thanks. I’m just going to lie here and wait for the Imitrex to kick in.”

Neal took that as his hint to stop talking. He slid off the coffee table and sat on the floor, so his back was against the sofa. He turned his phone on silent before texting Peter to let him know that he was at the house and El seemed to be doing okay. The TV was on low, but not so low that he couldn’t hear it, and so he watched _When Harry Met Sally_ and listened to Elizabeth breathing behind him. 

When the movie was over, he turned the DVD off, and El stirred. “How’re you doing?” he asked, twisting around to see her. 

She grimaced. “Not so great. ‘s a stubborn one.” She pressed a hand against her eyes again. 

“How about a hot shower?” Neal suggested. “Peter said that sometimes helps.”

“Yeah,” El said. She didn’t move. 

“Want me to help?” Neal ventured. He didn’t want to be too forward, what with Peter’s reminder that El was his wife still echoing in his ears, but she didn’t seem like she’d get there on her own. 

“Yes, thanks. I’m just a bit woozy.”

“Don’t worry,” Neal said, and stood to help her off the sofa. “I’ve got you.” He helped her up the stairs and into the bathroom, then left her alone to shower. He didn’t want to go far, though, because she’d been surprisingly unsteady on her feet, so he hovered outside. The linen closet was right across from the bathroom, and he thought about changing the sheets on the bed - it was something Kate had always appreciated when she wasn’t feeling well - but it seemed like that might be stepping over a line. 

When he heard the shower turn off, he went downstairs and made a pot of decaffeinated herbal tea. He was putting it on a tray to take upstairs when she came down, wrapped in her robe and squinting as though the light hurt. “I was going to bring this up to you,” he said. “Any better?”

“A bit. Temporarily, at least. I also took another pill, so maybe that will help. Thanks,” she added, when he set her cup in front of her at the island. She leaned forward, pressing her fingers against her temples.

Neal suddenly couldn’t stand to see her so miserable. “Here, let me,” he said, stepping around the island to stand behind her. He rested his fingers at her temples and rubbed slow circles. She made a noise low in her throat and dropped her hands down to curl around her tea cup. He dug his thumbs in lightly at the base of her skull. “You’re really good at that,” El said, letting her head fall forward. 

“One of my many skills,” Neal said. And then, after a few seconds of silence, “Kate used to get migraines.”

“I didn’t know that,” El murmured. 

“I don’t think it’s in the file Peter has on us. Mozzie got her medication on the blackmarket, but sometimes it didn’t work. I used to do this for her.”

El nodded slightly and didn’t ask any more questions. Neal rubbed her temples until she’d drained her teacup, and he judged her in danger of falling off the stool. Then he took her hand and led her into the living room, where he made her lie down on the sofa. He covered her with a throw and knelt by her head, rubbing her temples and the pressure points at the top of her skull while she breathed evenly, in and out. The line of tension between her brows started to ease. 

“Tell me a story,” El murmured, after a little while. “About you and Kate.”

Neal’s fingers faltered just a bit, before he managed to catch himself and continue. No one had asked him about Kate in - well, in a long time. Mozzie and Peter certainly didn’t; neither of them had liked her - it was one of the few things they agreed on. Sometimes he and June traded stories about Kate and Byron, but it had been a while. “Once, we were in Venice,” he said at last, keeping his voice deliberately low. “I probably shouldn’t tell you why. We’d been there a week and all it had done was rain, and then one day we woke up to a postcard-perfect blue sky. I was prepping for a job, but Kate made me take the day off, said she wanted to sip coffee and eat gelato like normal tourists. I could never say no to her, so we took a water taxi up to the Piazza San Marco and found this little café, right off the square. Kate’s Italian was terrible, but somehow it never seemed to matter. She flirted with the waiter and got him to bring us little delicacies until his manager yelled at him.” Neal smiled at the memory, glad to find that the pain had faded to a dull ache.

“El?” he whispered a moment later. There was no reply. Neal sat back and watched her, sleeping, for a moment or two before getting up and retrieving a bottle of Advil from the medicine cabinet and a glass of water from the kitchen. He set them and the remote within arm’s reach of the sofa, then quietly let himself out of the house. 

He called Peter on his walk to the subway station. “Burke,” Peter answered. 

“You’re a lucky man, Peter,” Neal said. “I hope you realize that.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Peter asked suspiciously. 

Neal rolled his eyes. “Nothing. Just that you’re lucky. To have Elizabeth.”

There was a beat of silence, but when Peter spoke again, the suspicion was gone, replaced with affection. “I am, aren’t I? Is she doing better?”

“She fell asleep. She’ll probably feel better when she wakes up. I’m on my way home now.”

“Good. And thank you,” he added. “I know that wasn’t how you wanted to spend your Saturday, but it made me feel better, knowing you were there.”

“I didn’t mind,” Neal said. He paused at the top of the stairs down into the subway. “But if you _really_ want to thank me, the Guggenheim is getting the Museé d’Orsay’s traveling Impressionist’s exhibition next week.”

Peter sighed. “Fine. I’ll take you.”

“Or El could,” Neal suggested. “She’d enjoy it a lot more than you would. You could catch a movie or something while she and I are at the exhibit, meet up with us afterward.”

Peter hesitated just long enough for Neal to know that he was actually thinking about it. “We’ll see,” he said at last. “I’m not sure the Marshals would consider my wife proper supervision for you.”

“What the Marshals don’t know -”

“Stop, Neal,” Peter said, sounding amused despite himself. “I’ll consider it. Have a good rest of your weekend. I’ll see you Monday.”

“See you Monday,” Neal said, and smiled as he hung up.

_Fin._


End file.
